


Face the World

by WhatIsAir



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Hurt, M/M, Shit!John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-06-21
Packaged: 2017-12-09 15:57:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/776042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatIsAir/pseuds/WhatIsAir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sex is phenomenal, and if only John were willing to let his and Sherlock's relationship be publicly known, maybe it wouldn't hurt so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock's always prided himself on being emotionless, uncaring and unfeeling.

Until he meets John Watson - ordinary extraordinaire - or extraordinary ordinaire (if such a thing existed)-

And his world - normally dull and grey and repetitive - becomes new and bright and dangerous.

Experimentation has proven sentiment to be a dangerous thing.

It's fitting, then, that Sherlock happens to like dangerous.

xxx 2 xxx

Their first kiss happens after an exhilarating chase of dodging rubbish skips and stray bullets while sprinting down dingy alleyways, back within the confines of 221B.

It's purely accidental and probably adrenaline-rush-induced, but Sherlock finds he doesn't care, so long as he has this - this moment right here with John's warm weight pressed against him, John's steady hands threaded in his hair, John's slightly chapped lips brushing against his own, sending literal sparks through Sherlock's veins, suffusing him with the comfort and warmth of home.

When John abruptly stumbles back, eyes wide and horrified with undisguised disgust - at himself, at Sherlock - and flees to his room, Sherlock lets him.

xxx x xxx

It happens again. Of course it does. There's just so much unsatisfied want, so much unabated lust between the two of them, that frankly it would be surprising for it not to happen.

The kisses gradually progress to more, to groping and mutual masturbation and hand jobs and rutting and blow jobs and eventually shagging.

So, basically every single sexual activity two males can engage in under the moon.

It's perfectly fine with Sherlock, of course. He lov - cares deeply for John and the sex is phenomenal.

It's not, however, perfectly fine with John. Which is why he makes it a point to date girls and have sex with them on a regular basis, as if to emphasize to the world his heterosexuality.

His and Sherlock's relationship remain to the public as platonic, nothing more between them than two particularly close friends sharing the rent.

Sherlock tells himself he doesn't mind, and ignores the burning stab he feels every time John publicly denounces their relationship.

xxx 2 xxx

The first time it's insinuated, Sherlock doesn't bother correcting it, but of course, John does.

John always does.

"Anything you want, on the house, for you and your date," Angelo grins, beaming widely as he sets down the menus.

"I'm not his date," John hastens to correct, a furrow in his brow at this implication of his not-so-hetero-heterosexuality.

And later-

"I'll get a candle for this table, it's more romantic," says Angelo, somewhat conspiratorially, and with an added wink for their benefit, as he places a candle in the middle of their table.

"I'm NOT his date."

Sherlock remains silent and pretends to concentrate on the case, when really all he can see is John shaking his head decidedly, all he can hear is John saying he's not his date.

And Sherlock doesn't know why, but his chest kind of hurts.

xxx x xxx

The second time someone implies it, Sherlock doesn't bother correcting it either, but of course, John does.

John always does.

"He isn't this much of an annoying berk in bed, is he?" Donovan inquires of John, failing to notice Sherlock is still (just barely) within earshot.

Sherlock remains on his hands and knees beside the corpse, pretending to study the victim's mauled neck, when really he's straining to hear John's reply.

"We're not- we're not together," is John's only just audible response, with a somewhat forced chuckle, as if to dismiss the ridiculous notion.

"No, course you're not," snorts Donovan, and Sherlock, with his back to them, can practically hear her eyebrow arch upwards sardonically.

John leaves the crime scene in a considerably worse temper.

That night the sex is rougher, too, but Sherlock doesn't mind - anything to make John happy - and besides, the sex is phenomenal.

"Fuck Donovan-" snarls John, pounding into Sherlock with such force the kitchen table skids forwards a few inches, before leaning down and biting hard on Sherlock's neck, low enough that in the morning his scarf will surely cover the bruise it leaves.

Sherlock doesn't say anything, just tilts his head so John has better access to his neck and presses back against the increasingly uncoordinated thrusts.

"Sherlock-" John practically growls, as he loses himself and spills in Sherlock, raking his nails up Sherlock's chest as he does so, leaving behind slightly red trails.

Then John's hand closes around his length and his world goes white and there is only one thing that makes sense and he can only choke out, "John-"

xxx 1 xxx

Sherlock isn't sure why this, of all things, should be his breaking point after everything he and John have done, after everything John has refrained from telling anyone, for two whole years.

But he supposes everyone has breaking points, even self-diagnosed sociopaths who aren't technically supposed to feel.

It happens after a case; a particularly successful one involving international heroics, actually, and John has just finished taking a shower.

Hair still damp and clad in a bathrobe and boxers, John wanders over to where Sherlock is sprawled on the sofa watching Doctor Who reruns with equal parts fascination and horror.

He flops down next to Sherlock, smiles and then kisses him, a mere casual peck on the lips, not even close to some of the more impassioned ones they have shared in the midst of heated moments.

And why is his heart beating faster against his ribcage, now? And his breathing, accelerated? And his chest, constricting so tightly it hurts?

John pulls back, and Sherlock doesn't realize something's amiss until John swipes (gently) at his cheek with his thumb and it comes away moist.

Sherlock blinks, somewhat disbelievingly, and in the process upset more of the tears brimming in his eyes. 

They slide silently down his cheeks, and he makes no move to wipe them.

Neither does John.


	2. Chapter 2

He's always been fine with what they have. Better a secret relationship with John than no relationship with John.

There aren't a lot of things he can't live without (though maybe that expression is a tad dramatic), and John isn't one of them.

And besides, he's never much cared for others' opinions of him, and he isn't going to start now.

xxx 2 xxx

"How is that fair?" Lestrade groans at Sherlock, gesturing at where John has taken his latest conquest on date at a crime scene, "Look at him- another new one! Honestly, how many girlfriends does he go through a month - five?"

"Seven on average," he replies shortly, feigning disinterest as he stoops to examine the cadaver - it appears to have been dead for a few days - three, by his estimation - and - and John's talking and laughing and holding hands with his new girlfriend - and they're leaving the crime scene without a second glance - and Lestrade's voice is being incessantly annoying in the background - 

"Sherlock? Are you feeling alright?"

Sherlock looks down to see he has clenched his fists so tightly a few of his nails have broken skin, he also realizes that he's no longer crouching by the corpse - he's on all fours beside it.

He doesn't need to look behind him to know John and whatever-her-name-is are long gone.

xxx x xxx

"Let's see, there was the one with the crooked nose - and then the one with the excessive armpit hair - then the one with the lack of curves - then the one with the fake accent - oh, I apologise, Alejandra!" Sherlock reels off the moment 'Alejandra' steps over the threshold of 221B, with a possessive arm hooked through John's, practically salivating on him.

John stops to direct a glare at where Sherlock is sprawled upside down on the sofa, with his feet braced on the wall and his hair brushing the floor, fingers steepled under his chin.

"Alejandra' huffs in annoyance and stalks out of the flat, stomping on John's feet with one of her heeled boots as she does so.

"You didn't have to do that," John says, eerily calm, "That's the third time this week - are you going for some sort of record?"

Sherlock scowls and is about to flounce off to his room when all of a sudden John's across the room and his hands are on Sherlock, pinning him to the sofa securely, still with his head the wrong way up.

"Well, you did just deprive me of a halfway decent blowj-"

John's not done speaking before Sherlock's gotten his flies undone with dexterous fingers and has his head arched up and his lips wrapped around John's cock. The angle is uncomfortable and awkward - of course it is, he's not even upright - but Sherlock doesn't mind, as long as this pleases John. And it does seem to please him, if his helpless moans and involuntary shuddering are any indication. His hands are fisted in Sherlock's hair and he's using it to guide the increasingly brutal rhythm, so Sherlock lets his jaw slacken and lets John set the pace. 

Sherlock can't quite breathe and all the blood rushing to his head is making him light-headed and even more breathless, so it's something of a relief when John comes, his release shooting down his throat. He swallows, though it's slightly difficult given his position, and gratefully accepts John's hand that tugs him upright once more.

xxx 2 xxx

He can't see or hear or smell or taste or breathe or think - or breathe or think - orbreatheorthink - he can't think.

Nothing matters except finding John, making sure he's safe.

Of course, he can't quite forget the fact that the incident happened while John was on a dinner date with Joanne, the one hour he had been out of Sherlock's sight.

Mycroft's surveillance shows John being ambushed after walking Joanne home, and manhandled into a sleek silver Jaguar.

It's been 74 hours and he's near desperate - he hasn't slept in 83 - and he's tried pretty much every single lead he has.

He's even appealed to Mycroft for help. Not, of course, that he received any.

"If he has indeed been taken by the K.K.K., I am afraid it is beyond even my power to help him."

And so Sherlock throws himself into investigation - he questions witnesses and scours information and dodges grenades (how unoriginal) - until he finally finds John.

He looks fine save for a few cut and scratches, and he seems glad to see Sherlock too.

Sherlock has back-up (for once), and Lestrade and his men arrest the principle members of the K.K.K., and, once John is deemed healthy enough, they head home.

xxx x xxx

He doesn't believe in fairytales or heroes or happy-ever-afters. He does, however, believe in villains.

And they're mostly in the shape of John's innumerable girlfriends.

He thinks them idiotic and annoying, even more so than the average human (excluding John, of course).

So he doesn't know why he's currently doing the dictionary definition of 'stupidity' - dashing back into the still-burning wreckage of the hospital to find John's imbecilic girlfriend.

There has been another bombing, this time targeting local hospitals and clinics (though thankfully casualties are scarce), and John's current conquest - Tina, Tiana, Tara, Tibula (hang on, that isn't a name) - who is a nurse, is apparently still stuck somewhere in the smoldering ruins of the place. The surviving patients and hospital staff are assembled outside, and John's girlfriend is, regrettably, not amongst them, and the fire brigade have yet to arrive.

Mycroft's conveniently chosen today of all days to kidnap John, and he isn't going to be here for another half hour at least, which is why Sherlock finds himself dodging crumbling concrete and burning beams as he picks his way across what used to be the lobby of the hospital, covering his nose and mouth with his sleeve.

He finally finds her, crouching behind one of the reception counters, scared out of her mind but unharmed.

She's still in shock and is acting abominably slowly, so he rolls his eyes, grabs her arm and runs.

They've barely made it outside before the main door collapses into a pile of burning rubble.

He gets rid of Teresa once they pass an ambulance, insisting they give her something for the shock, and waits for John to arrive.

After ten minutes he does, and the first thing he does is make a beeline for Tasha, striding past Sherlck without a second glance.

After another ten minutes of John fawning over his precious girlfriend without any indication of detaching himself from her side for the forseeable future, Sherlock concludes that he's not needed here.

He walks three streets before finding a cab.

xxx 1 xxx

He's never expected to be asked the question, could never have predicted it on his own, but this is John - unique, unpredictable John - so naturally he has to go and ask the dreaded question.

It's been three years and seventeen days since they met, two years and two-hundred-and-twenty-two days since they first started shagging, and two years and two-hundred-and-twenty-one days since John's told him that their relationship is to be strictly platonic outside of 221B.

So why the question has to be posed now, of all times, is beyond his comprehension.

But pose it John does, and it catches Sherlock off guard, those few quietly spoken words underlined with tension.

"Do you - do you mind?"

Sherlock decides to be honest (for once).

"No, of course not. Don't be absurd, John."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading :D


	3. Chapter 3

He doesn't know why he does what he does.

It had started out as a precaution, a lie to fall back on should anyone for a moment even doubt his sexual orientation.

Eventually he had fallen too far into the lie, and it had become a necessity.

He doesn't want to dwell on what the consequences of anyone finding out would mean for both him and Sherlock.

He doesn't want to imagine losing Sherlock.

He doesn't want to live without Sherlock.

xxx 2 xxx

Maybe his guilty conscience is what has him constantly catering to the detective's demands.

It's hardly a fair trade, making a few cups of tea and making sure Sherlock doesn't get himself killed on cases, in exchange for keeping their relationship hidden like a dirty secret.

Sherlock's undoubtedly got the worse end of the deal.

"John!" comes a shout from the kitchen, and is followed by the unmistakable sounds of an explosion.

He runs in, expecting to be confronted with all manner of evils, from an experiment gone wrong to Sherlock's ineptness at handling the toaster.

It is the latter of the two evils.

He rolls his eyes as he helps his boyf - his friend - extricate the two pieces of burnt toast from the machine.

"Sit down, I'll make the toast. Want some tea?"

From the genuine smile that transforms Sherlock's face, you'd think he'd offered to give him unlimited access to the morgue.

If he is doing this to ease his conscience somewhat, it doesn't much seem to be working.

As he turns away to make the tea, John wonders whether it'll ever be enough.

He wonders how long it'll be before Sherlock tells him, 'Enough' and leaves.

xxx x xxx

John curses to himself as the taxi stops for another traffic light.

Time's running out and he has no idea if Sherlock is still alive.

When they finally arrive at the abandoned factory, John flings a wad of cash at the cabbie and practically trips over himself in his haste to find Sherlock.

The factory has way too many floors, he thinks, as he sprints through each of them in search of the detective.

It's eerily silent, and the prickling feeling on the back of his neck doesn't sit well with John either.

On the fourth floor, he finally sees what he's come for.

He keeps to the wall and slinks forward, unnoticed.

He feels an overwhelming sense of relief as he sees Sherlock sitting at a table, hands cuffed but otherwise appearing unharmed. Two of his captors are behind him, both armed, and one sits opposite Sherlock, facing him over the table. A gun lies on the table between them.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out the situation at hand.

"Do you want to go first, or shall I?" the man opposite Sherlock asks mockingly.

"Please, go ahead," Sherlock returns evenly, his face betraying no emotion.

The man lifts the gun to his own head and pulls the trigger. It clicks on an empty chamber.

As the gun is slid to Sherlock, who maneuvers it with his cuffed hands to point at his own temple, John springs into action.

Three shots from his handgun are all it takes. All three of Sherlock's captors crumple as John fires, every one of his shots ringing true.

The men didn't stand a chance.

John glances at Sherlock to see a look of genuine surprise flit across his face, before the detective covers the slip with a grin.

Sherlock squeezes the trigger of the gun he's still holding. It, too, clicks on an empty chamber. "Well, at least we know I wouldn't have died-"

John doesn't let him finish.

He pounces on Sherlock and holds on to him until they're both out of breath.

xxx 2 xxx

He doesn't know why he even bothers dating anyone of the opposite sex anymore.

It's not as though every single one of his girlfriends doesn't get driven away by either a) Sherlock's general Sherlock-ness or b) John's own Sherlock-ness at times or c) both of their combined Sherlock-ness.

It's enough to drive anyone away, John supposes.

"John - John, are you even listening?" Angelica asks irritably, waving her manicured hand in front of his face. "I asked whether you think magenta or lilac highlights matches my eyes more?"

To be honest, John neither knows nor cares of the difference between those two very similar shades of purple, and besides, isn't Angelica a bit too old for highlights so bold?

He may or may not have said that out loud.

Judging from the glass of white wine promptly splashed onto his face, he'd wager he did say that out loud.

It's a mark of how little effort he's putting into these relationships as Angelica stomps out of the restaurant and John makes no move to go after her.

The only reason he'd started going out with her was because her black locks reminded him of Sherlock's.

It's pretty safe to say Sherlock's ruined him for anyone else.

And John can't even be arsed to care.

xxx x xxx

"So I was with Sophia the other day, and she told me how Margaret's sister's niece has gotten herself into..."

John tunes Meg out as he tries discreetly to check his phone under the table.

It's only ten minutes into their second date, and John's ready to commit homicide already.

Honestly, does the woman ever stop talking? Everything coming out of her mouth seems to be pure gossip.

A new text message saves him from death by boredom.

'Require urgent assistance. Concerns life or death situation. Come home at once. - SH'

Instead all he has to do is thrust his phone's screen under Meg's nose, and blather out a lie about his doctoring skills needed in an emergency.

He arrives at 221B fifteen minutes later, and sprints up the stairs to the flat.

Sherlock is draped over John's armchair, John's laptop in front of him, and John's dressing gown wrapped around him.

"Well?" he asks, panting slightly, trying to identify the source of mortal danger in the room.

Although, perhaps he should have known by now Sherlock's tendency for melodrama.

"I need a cup of tea."

John internally debates the merits of complying with the request versus stomping off in a strop.

He chooses neither of those options.

Instead he grabs the detective by the front of his (John's) dressing gown and crushes their lips together.

"John - what -"

Oh, he's surprised the great detective, how wonderful.

He shuts Sherlock up with a bruising kiss, his hands slipping round to cradle his head as Sherlock's mouth opens to admit his tongue and he begins reciprocating.

John's laptop is shoved rather unceremoniously to the side as they grapple, each struggling to declothe the other without breaking the kiss. And John's ever so glad Sherlock has a slight tendency to flounce about the flat starkers but for a sheet (or in this case, John's dressing gown), so it's really only John's clothes they have to worry about.

His jeans and boxers make it halfway down his thighs before Sherlock's hand - those long, pale, aristocratic fingers - are wrapped around them both. John moans his appreciation as they both thrust into the tight heat made by Sherlock's fist, their lengths sliding together with delicious friction.

And he's sure he isn't ever going to get enough of Sherlock debauched, with his already errant curls in disarray, his pupils blown wide with unadulterated want, his mouth dropping open to utter a litany of sinfully filthy sounds that go straight to John's groin.

They climax almost simultaneously, with Sherlock biting his own fist to stifle his groans, and John biting Sherlock's shoulder to stifle his. They collapse in a tangle of limbs on the armchair.

"Ruined a date, have I?" Sherlock inquires, once he's regained his breath and come down from his orgasm high.

"You know you have." John attempts half-heartedly to glower. "I should really stop rushing to your aid whenever you have an 'emergency'."

"Ah, but what if, for once, my life really was at stake?" the bastard smirks. "You wouldn't forgive yourself if I died."

No, I wouldn't, John thinks. Not only that, but I'd die along with you, too, so it's probably for the best if we both stayed alive.

Out loud, he says, "You can make your own goddamn tea."

xxx 1 xxx

John isn't sure why he never does anything to fix this.

Maybe it's cowardice, maybe it's fear. He doesn't know.

He doesn't know why Sherlock still stays with him, doesn't know why he hasn't left him for good yet.

If he does leave, John would let him. Of course he would. It's the least he can do.

But for now, he's going to go on being a selfish bastard and continue this - their - whatever it is - relationship.

He wonders, sometimes, whether he'll ever stop feeling guilty.

He wonders how long it'll be before he can look at Sherlock, and not feel acutely just how he's ruined the man's life.

He wonders how long it'll be before putting up with his sexuality crisis is too much, and Sherlock will tell him, 'Enough.'

He wonders how long it'll be before Sherlock leaves, and never comes back.

I'm sorry. So sorry.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock is aware that he is a selfish bastard.

That truth has been verified by many, some of them expressed through increasingly creative means.

He knows what he has with John isn't what normal people would call a 'healthy relationship'.

He keeps this up simply because he lov - cares deeply for John and wants him to be happy.

So he wants it to be him that makes John happy, sue him. He knows he's a selfish egotist anyway.

If continuing on with their definitely-not-platonic relationship pleases John, then Sherlock's fine with it.

If John comes to his senses one day, leaves and settles down with a wife and is happy, then Sherlock's fine with it.

In fact, he might go so far as to say their 'friends with benefits' thing verges on the makings of an 'unhealthy' relationship.

But then, he supposes he and John aren't most people, anyway, so that hardly matters.

And besides, the sex is phenomenal.

xxx 2 xxx

"Does this count as necrophilia?" Sherlock mutters from where he's pressed uncomfortably against the mantelpiece, mouth a hair's breadth away from the skull, who's leering salaciously at him with dead (ha bloody ha) eyes.

"Is your mouth touching the skull?" John asks behind him, where he's preoccupied with working his lubed fingers in and out of the detective's arse.

"...No."

"Then it doesn't count," John declares with satisfaction, just as he stops scissoring his fingers in Sherlock's hole and pulls them out, where they're replaced a moment later with John's cock.

And it doesn't matter how many times they do this, because every single time they do, Sherlock keeps getting blown away with how breath-takingly wonderful it feels.

John's in /his/ blood, and that makes Sherlock as much John's as John is Sherlock's.

Then John starts moving, and for a while all coherent thought leaves him, leaving him able to only /feel/. The sensory input in itself is overwhelming - John's length, stroking every inch inside of him - John's torso, pressed flush against his back - John's nose, inhaling at his nape - John's hands, carding through his hair as he guides them through a fast (but not brutal) rhythm.

The edge of the mantelpiece digs a sharp line across his chest but he doesn't care, his arms are straining with the effort of bracing himself against John's thrusts but he doesn't care, and he's no longer in control of the appreciative moans he knows are coming from his own mouth but fuck if he can be arsed to care.

John shouts hoarsely and climaxes, his grip on Sherlock tightening as he continues thrusting, driving Sherlock further against the mantelpiece, bringing the skull into contact with the detective's mouth.

Sherlock gives a muffled protest just as John's hand snakes around their bodies and palms his cock, and his world wormholes and he actually sees the stars in a way he finds interesting for once.

When he returns to his faculties John's half-supporting his weight and grinning bemusedly. "You kissed the skull."

"Necrophilia isn't really all that bad, John."

xxx 2 xxx

It happens almost every single time they row, so perhaps Sherlock should be used to it by now.

He isn't, though, and every time he sees John walk out the door, he fears it'll truly be the last time.

"I thought you weren't doing cocaine anymore, Sherlock!"

John yelling and stomping around the flat in a strop after discovering his secret stash.

"You're going to get yourself killed at the rate you're going!"

John stomping closer and closer to the front door.

"I don't want to this to be the ruin of you!"

John stomping out the front door, taking Sherlock's heart with him.

Sherlock lets himself slide down on the sofa.

He slaps on four nicotine patches, and counts the time it takes John to come home.

If he comes home.

xxx x xxx

He's never been able to take care of John.

It's always the other way round.

John, making him tea. John, buying the milk. John, cooking dinner. John, saving his life.

More times than he can count.

Granted, he's saved John's life on multiple occasions, but then, he was the one who got them into mortal peril in the first place.

Why can't John see how completely inept he is at caring for him?

Why hasn't he left? Why doesn't he leave?

And it's this fear, this constant nagging fear, that one day John will have had enough, that drives Sherlock to keep John happy, no matter what the cost.

xxx 1 xxx

He wonders, sometimes, why John even bothers putting up with him.

He's been told he's a melodramatic diva, an annoying dick, a freak, a monster.

Why anyone would be caught dead with him Sherlock really doesn't know.

Why John's still here, after three years, still remains a mystery to him.

Surely he'd be better off married, with a child or two, leading a normal life?

But John's still here, and their relationship does't need to be publicly acknowledged so long as he has this.

So long as he has John.


	5. Chapter 5

Cocaine is for clarity. It makes everything sharper, makes the world less dull.

Morphine is for forgetting. It numbs and allows him to forget, erase, delete.

Sherlock hasn't had to resort to morphine in years.

He hopes he never has to.

xxx 2 xxx

"Was waiting five minutes for back-up too much to ask?" John yells, nearly apoplectic with rage and worry, as he crouches down to ensure that Sherlock is, indeed, still breathing.

From his vantage point on the ground, Sherlock thinks John rather resembles an angry squirrel, chattering incessantly and generally being annoying but rather adorable at the same time.

"'S not a big deal," Sherlock mumbles, as his world tilts and his vision blurs, "'M still alive -" is all he gets out before he loses consciousness.

When he comes to, he's in a hospital. Boring. He doesn't bother opening his eyes. All hospitals are the same - white walls, white doors, white floors. Sterile. Lifeless. Dull.

He can tell without opening his eyes that it is John by his bedside. His presence is familiar and comforting, with a lingering scent of tea and clean soap and /John/. A rustle of turning pages indicate that he is reading - another rustle, four seconds later - indicate that he is most likely pretending to read, while using this as an excuse to stare at Sherlock's face without interruption.

Sherlock waits until he is sure John has entered into the 'comfortable-with-staring-at-comatose-person' mode before saying, "Do stop staring, John. It's not very polite."

He is rewarded with a startled yelp and what sounds like the hurried scraping of a hospital chair as John quite literally jumps, letting out a surprised, not altogether masculine yelp.

Sherlock keeps his eyes closed and smirks as he feels John swatting a playful hand at his arm, lightly admonishing.

/Thank you for staying/, he wants to say.

/Not just now, but all the time, every time. You always stay./

/Thank you./

The painkillers they injected him with pull him back under before he gets any of the words out.

xxx x xxx

"It's a cold, Sherlock," John shouts from the kitchen, "That doesn't make you an invalid."

"But I can't moovveee -" the consulting five-year-old whines, flopping bonelessly about on the sofa like a fish on dry land. "Turn the lights off - they're hurting my eyes."

John pokes his head out the kitchen long enough to frown and say, "The lights are off, what are you harping on about?"

"The light - it huuuurts," Sherlock moans, dramatically flinging an arm over his forehead like some swooning Victorian maiden, flapping an arm wildly at the windows less than five feet away. John heaves a put-upon sigh as he goes over to the slightly parted curtains and draws them shut.

He heads back to the kitchen and has all of five minute’s peace before banging from the direction of the sitting room has him wearily getting to his feet to investigate.

Sherlock is still on his back on the sofa, having managed to acquire a golf club without moving an inch – presumably he toed it off where it had been lying on the floor – and is now swinging it one-handedly, mercilessly battering the nearest wall.

John strides over to the sofa and plucks the weapon from the detective’s hand, earning him a pout and a swish of dressing gown coattails as Sherlock turns his back to him with flourish, burying his face into a cushion.

“Tea?” John asks, taking care to set the golf club far, far away from the sofa’s reach.

“Please,” comes the muffled reply.

What Sherlock actually means to say is /thank you/.

xxx 2 xxx

“I said, could you pass me my phone, John?” Sherlock murmurs, stretched across the sofa, hands steepled under his chin, as John returns from dinner at Harry’s. “It’s in my left jacket pocket.”

“Didn’t notice I’d gone out, then?” John mutters, as he crosses over to the sofa and digs about in Sherlock’s jacket pocket. The sleuth’s eyes are closed, his form perfectly still, his face too pale, and the shallow rise and fall of his chest is the only sign that he is not a corpse.

John’s fingers brush across Sherlock’s chest as he withdraws the phone – purely accidental, of course – and he feels, for the first time, the accelerated heartbeat, thrumming so rapidly he’s sure the organ itself will break free of the pericardium, and burst out of the detective’s chest.

John pauses, the phone held suspended, forgotten. His own heartbeat seems all at once to be echoing in his head, thumping in his ears, eclipsing his every breath.

Sherlock’s eyes flick open, his clear /bluegreengrey/ gaze focused unwaveringly on his own. Whatever he sees in John’s expression, it causes his cupid bow lips to part and his pupils to farther dilate.

“/John/,” is all he says, all he can get out, before he’s silenced by John’s mouth on his. Their kiss is gentle, and slow, nothing like those they’ve previously shared that were heated, rough, biting. The hesitant swipe of John’s tongue on Sherlock’s lower lip is all the invitation he needs as the detective parts his lips, allowing John access. Their tongues tangle and wrestle, playfully battling for dominance, as John’s hands find purchase in Sherlock’s ebony hair and his legs find purchase straddling Sherlock’s hips on the sofa.

The detective’s breathy moans are swallowed by John, as Sherlock winds a hand through the hair at the nape of John’s neck, the other hand ghosting down to settle on the doctor’s lower back. When they’re both out of breath and their mouths are kiss-swollen, John takes to trailing kisses down the detective’s jaw, his neck, before using his tongue to trace a path back up. And when he reaches that sensitive spot right under Sherlock’s jawline John swirls his tongue on the skin there before gently sucking, reducing the detective to a debauched, shivering mess below him.

John places a last lingering kiss there, before standing and holding out a hand to Sherlock, who takes it and is pulled to his feet. Wordlessly John tugs him towards his bedroom, chuckling at the slightly dazed look on the genius’ face. Once they’re inside, John backs Sherlock to the bed, before lightly pushing him onto his back.

Their kiss this time is heated, passionate, but no less gentle than before. Slowly, reverently, John begins undoing the considerable amount of buttons on Sherlock’s shirt, baring more of that alabaster skin, as the sleuth scrambles to reciprocate, and they both break apart so John can pull his jumper over his head. It’s flung unceremoniously into a corner, as Sherlock’s long, deft fingers work now on John’s shirt, flicking buttons open at breakneck speed, belying his impatience.

When both their shirts have been taken care of and joined John’s jumper on the floor, and bare skin is finally touching bare skin, their groans of relief are simultaneous, their arousal renewed with fervour. Unable to resist, John dips his head and swipes his tongue into the hollow of Sherlock’s collarbone, causing a barely stifled gasp and John hides his smirk at having discovered this erogenous zone. John shifting his hips just so brings their cocks into alignment as Sherlock lets out possibly the most erotic moan John has ever heard.

Their trousers and pants are quickly taken care of, Sherlock kicking them into a pile on the floor as John fumbles in his bedside drawer for the lube. Sherlock tosses his head back as John slips a finger in, drawing panting, ragged breaths. When John adds another and scissors them, angling them to find the detective’s prostate, Sherlock lets loose a litany of pornographic sounds intermingled with what might have been Latin cuss words. Sherlock’s hair is a mess, an errant curl resting on his forehead, a sheen of sweat layering his body, as he presses back down on John’s fingers, the tight heat of the sleuth’s inner walls clamping down causing John to groan.

“John,” Sherlock rasps, pupils blown so wide they almost completely obscure the /greygreenblue/ of his irises. “Please.”

John is helpless to resist any request made in that context, of course, so he withdraws his hand and slicks his length with more lube before lining up and pushing in. In response Sherlock simply locks his ankles around John’s back, urging him deeper. John hears himself moan unabashedly at the tight wall of heat surrounding him, the urge to drive into the detective over and over again until he is sated overwhelming. He doesn’t know how many times they’ve done this, over the course of the year, but it’s never felt this way before. Sex with Sherlock has never felt this… intimate.

He begins thrusting, slowly, allowing the detective to get used to the intrusion, while his mouth finds Sherlock’s once more, and their tongues entwine. His hands are braced upon the mattress, Sherlock’s arms are locked around his neck, one hand idly caressing the short blond strands there. The pace of his thrusts pick up gradually, until he’s pounding relentlessly into the detective and hitting his prostate with unerring accuracy each time. John feels sure the married ones next door would be scandalized at the amount of noise they’re making, obscene moans spilling out of Sherlock and John responding likewise while the bed springs protest at the strenuous activity it’s being put through, but at the moment John can’t be arsed to care.

“Sherlock –” he manages to gasp, teetering on the brink, and that sends Sherlock over the edge, spiraling into orgasm as hot come paints his own chest and belly in ribbons of white, the detective’s gaze locked on John’s all the while, so the doctor sees every minute change, every shift of emotion, behind that usually shuttered façade – in Sherlock’s eyes John detects bliss and ecstasy and relief, but also in an unguarded moment, John sees /affection adoration devotion fondness/ – he sees /resignation hurt pain misery love/ – and that last emotion, that he saw for the briefest of moments before Sherlock’s walls slammed back down, causes his world to tilt on its axis and stars to burst behind his eyelids as orgasm crashes over him, and he spends himself within the detective before pulling out after it’s over.

Later, once John’s certain Sherlock has fallen asleep, he carefully unwinds from his – friend flatmate boyfriend lover – and gets off the bed, gathering his clothes from the floor and silently dressing.

He leaves the flat and hails a cab.

He spends the night at Harry’s.

xxx x xxx

In the morning, Sherlock wakes up alone to a John-less bed and a John-less flat.

It doesn’t take a genius to work out the gist of it.

Sherlock ignores the gnawing ache in his thorax, tries to forget about the stabbing pain there, a million tiny daggers piercing his heart, again and again.

It’s no one’s fault but his, really.

He let John in too far, offered his bleeding, still beating heart to him on a silver platter, hoping he would accept it.

It’s no surprise he hasn’t.

No one ever has.

He knows what he has to do if John is to come back.

xxx 1 xxx

The beginning of the end.

Such a dramatic way to phrase things, Sherlock idly muses.

The needle is poised over his skin, its tip trembling imperceptibly.

He tells himself he will start afresh, with a clean slate.

Back to the way things were with John.

Back to /before/, back to just flatmates, just friends.

Then, maybe then, John will come back.

Simply because the alternative hurts too much.

He cannot, will not, lose John.

It is inconvenient. Feeling is inconvenient.

/Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock./

For once, his brother is right.

The morphine kicks in and he begins deleting.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed that (:


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